


(n)ever changing

by eliestarr



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 16:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eliestarr/pseuds/eliestarr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something feels different when Artemis wakes up that morning. And she’s not sure if it’s from waking up in his room and his bed—or finally having crossed that fine fine line.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(n)ever changing

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2011 tumblr christmas exchange at yj-exchanges.

Something was different.

It was the first thing Artemis was acutely aware of when she awoke that morning, with sleep in her eyes and an ache in her ribs. The second was that these were certainly not her sheets. They were red, whilst her’s were white. They covered a bed that was plush and comfortable, while hers was considerably stiffer. And this place as a whole was warm and welcoming, which, as far as she remembered, the cold, fifth-floor room of her apartment in Gotham was anything _but_.

As her eyes adjusted, it took her very little time to realize why.

Those sheets? They had ever so tiny _Flash_ symbols on them. And that bed? She didn’t need to think very hard to remember who it belonged to. And that warmth? Well—when she felt _him_ shuffle behind her, snaking his arms around her waist and pull her closer, mumbling into his pillow, it became rather self-explanatory.

 _Wally_. She fought the urge to groan. Of _course_.

It had started out simple. Routine, even.

They had returned from a mission, battered and bruised, and found themselves together in the first washroom with med kit in hand. He needed stitches on his arm, and she, on her ribs. He was the only one who didn’t mind when she kicked and complained, and she was the only one that listened when that flirtatious tongue of his turned wicked and he cursed like a sailor. They’d forgotten how long it had been since they’d first come together after a mission and patched each other up, but now it was little more than a reflex.

Which is what made this time so strange.

One of them had said something different, she supposed. Or changed something about their pattern, she thought. Because somehow, somewhere, a light had turned on inside. A switch had been flicked. A spark, ignited. And when hands had made the move from plasters to waistlines and tongues had gone from cursing and talking to twisting and mingling—they had stepped over that line they had never before crossed.

And they’d moved from the washroom to his room in just a flash (ha, _ha_ ), and from there on out, things were just a blur. It wasn’t like they were under the influence of something—unless, of course, you counted _infatuation_ as _something_. But as she pressed her mind to remember details, she found things to be a bit hazy, slow, and altogether… _good_. Clothes, gone. Skin, kissed. Every inch of them, melded together. She hadn’t a chance to decide, then, if it was a bad idea. She didn’t have a moment to think, then, if it was his first.

But now, she could feel heat in her cheeks, remembering—reminiscing—and not once regretting.

That was, of course, until he opened his mouth.

“Y’all right there, Blondie?” He grinned, ear-to-ear, snuggling himself closer. “You seem a bit… flushed.”

“I’m fine,” she swatted him away, sliding from his grip and sitting up. She dragged the top blanket over her frame, refusing to let him see that the blush had continued its way past her face. Judging by the glint in his eyes, he already knew.

“Oh, I _know_ you are,” he drawled, crossing his arms behind his head as she stood, making for the pile of discarded clothes that came in yellow and green, leaving him with only the sheet. She fought the urge to roll her eyes as he continued. “This is where you return the compliment, Beautiful.”

“Sorry, Kid Full-Of-Himself, I don’t say things I don’t mean,” she snickered, gingerly plucking her pants from his messy floor. He guffawed.

“So the things you, er, _said_ , last night were—”

“Don’t!” She rounded on him then, grappling at the blanket with one hand, and her clothes with the other. “Last night, we were…that was…”

“Sorry, Arty, but you have nothing to blame it on but your—” she glared, fiercely, and he coughed before recovering, “ _ourselves_. We have no one to blame but us.” He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling his red locks, and she caught a brief glimpse of herself, doing the very same thing, with far more… _fervor_. “I mean, it’s not like we haven’t been thinking about this—er, about _us_.” He paused, briefly, looking up at her with the biggest of cringes. “Right?”

“Right,” she nodded, the blush returning with a vengeance to her cheeks. She looked away.

“For a while,” he continued, sitting up against his headboard. “Ever since—”

Her “—Bialya” mixed with his “—the training simulation”, and the red splotches on her skin worsened. _Again_. And her brows narrowed into a glare in his direction as he smirked. _Again_.

“Say something stupid, and I’ll hit you.”

“I’d love to see you try.” He ushered her forward, patting the bed, eyes daring. “But I’m betting it’ll take me a lot less time to deprive you of that blanket than it will for you to hit me.”

She glowered. “I hate you.”

“Funny, thought you don’t say things you don’t mean.”

“I _really_ hate you,” she grumbled, trudging back towards the bed and sitting at the edge.

“And I’m _really_ having a hard time believing you.” He slunk closer, his fingers curling around the corners of the blanket and slowly, without protests, pulling it downwards. His lips brushed against her shoulder, causing her to shiver. “ _Especially_ when you don’t even have to say anything.”

“You’re rather confident for someone who’s all talk, Kid M—mphhfff!”

“Not all talk anymore, am I?” he snickered, dropping feather-light kisses along her collarbone.

“Oh, I’m _flattered_ ,” she rolled her eyes, but stopped halfway when his kisses wound their way upwards along her neck. “Shouldn’t we—eeee—talk about this?”

He pulled back, frowning. “Talk about what? There’s nothing to _talk_ about.” He pressed his lips to her skin again, letting his teeth graze her shoulder. She grit her own teeth to stop the shiver starting low on her spine, trying to spin its way upwards, through her every fibre. Grinning, he kept on, and she tried hard to slide further down the bed and away from him.

“Wall—seriously, we need— _Wally._ ”

“Yeah, like _that’s_ going to motivate me to _stop_.” She made an indignant noise in the back of her throat and he paused, sighing. He sat back against his headboard, stretching his arms over his head, nonchalant, _very_ aware her eyes were watching the way he moved. Without a shirt, and barely a sheet. “Fine, you want to talk about it, Artemis? I’ll start. Yes, okay, I was _mostly_ all talk. And no, now I’m not. And yeah, feel flattered, because you know what? I wouldn’t take it back. I won’t regret it. Because it’s you. It’s not M’gann…a-and it’s not Zatanna…and it’s not anyone else. It’s _you_ …and it’s _us_ , we… I just… it was…”

The more momentum he lost, the wider her grin seemed to grow. Oh, how quickly tables could turn. “Out of steam already, Wallman?”

“Like _hell_ ,” he winked, and just like that, that flirtatious tongue of his was back, and suddenly doing a lot more than just flirting. “You know,” he hummed, nibbling at her earlobe before twisting her to face him, their noses practically touching. “This is where you return the, ah, confession, Beautiful.”

She could. She could tell him that their night—of fire and firsts and feelings—was different. She could tell him how it sent tingles down into the tips of her toes. She could tell him how it _meant_ something to her, too, the way it did for him.

Sure, it wasn’t her first, the way it was with him. And yes, there were things he had done that had her doubting that very fact. And no, she wasn’t going to regret this— _them_ —any of it. But did that mean she had to be as open-hearted about it as him?

 _Hah_ , _right_.

“Sorry, I thought _someone_ said we didn’t need to _talk_ about it,” she purred, leaning forward and capturing his ever-running mouth with hers, between her teeth, pushing herself against him. He grinned against her lips, lying backwards, taking her with him. The blanket wrapped around them, trapping them together.

“Well, if you insist,” he winked, meeting her halfway; their lips pressed together, her undone hair falling in waves over him. With a free hand, he twirled locks of blonde around his finger, working a grin against her lips again.

And it was here, amongst Flash sheets and warmth, with tongues that were once flirtatious or cursing, and legs that usually kicked, that she realized, perhaps, things weren’t so different afterall. They were, in fact, the same Wally and Artemis who’d woken up together in Bialya, and stuck together until the end; the same Artemis and Wally who’d woken up after the training simulation with more than just a failed mission on their minds. They were the same two who looked out for each other, cared for each other, and maybe, just maybe, felt something more for each other.

And the beauty was, waking up here, in his room (and later, hers), _together_ —

—it didn’t feel that different at all.


End file.
